


Number On the Wall

by brynnmck



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Canadian Actor RPF, Canadian Actor RPF (C6D), Canadian Musician RPF (C6D), Headstones (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hugh times it perfectly. When Callum comes around the corner of the hallway, a distant look in his eyes that means he's still deep in whateverthefuck he's filming at the moment, Hugh's waiting for him, leaning against the door of Callum's flat with what he damn well knows is a sexy slouch.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number On the Wall

Hugh times it perfectly. When Callum comes around the corner of the hallway, a distant look in his eyes that means he's still deep in whateverthefuck he's filming at the moment, Hugh's waiting for him, leaning against the door of Callum's flat with what he damn well knows is a sexy slouch.

"About time, cuntface," Hugh drawls, feeling a shit-eating grin curving his mouth.

Callum's face goes blank with shock for half a second, then bright with happiness, before his expression settles into cool Callum welcome, _yeah, I guess I'm glad to see you, maybe_ , but Hugh's not falling for that James Dean bullshit, not this time.

"What the fuck, Dillon?" Callum says, grinning back, nudging Hugh aside to slide his key into the lock. "You can't pick up the phone?" They're both wearing coats against the Vancouver damp, and even through several layers of fabric, the pressure of Callum's shoulder against his is enough to get Hugh rock-hard in his jeans. Long fucking trip from TO, but _fuck_ , it's worth it already.

"You never answer your phone, asshole," Hugh points out, which is true, and one of the most goddamn irritating things about Callum, but Hugh's in a forgiving mood at the moment, so he doesn't get much force behind it. Callum just laughs. They're inside the flat now, Callum shucking off his coat to throw it on the nearest chair.

Hugh couldn't give a fuck about his coat; he kicks the door shut without looking and gets right in Callum's face, shoving him backwards with a hand on each of his shoulders. Callum's ready for him, and he's a wiry little fuck, but Hugh has weight and premeditation and about three thousand miles of pent-up lust on his side, so there's not a hell of a lot of question how it's going to end.

Callum's got a nice little old lady living across the hall from him, always baking him cookies and murmuring what a sweet boy he is, and Hugh spares a second to hope gleefully that she asks Callum tomorrow morning what that crash against his door was all about.

But only a second, and then he's not thinking about anything but what's right in front of him, because this is Callum, and this is him, and this is them panting and pressed together from their chests to their hips, and it's been fucking _months._ "Hi," he says, the word scraping out of his throat. He can feel the thud of Callum's heart against his ribs, the muscles of Callum's arms flexing underneath his grip; he can smell the chemical bite of makeup from the tiny smudge still smeared along Callum's jaw.

"Hi, yourself," Callum answers. His tone is casual, but his pupils are wide and he's hard against Hugh's thigh, and Hugh smirks. He knows when he's got an audience eating out of his hand.

"Saw your new flick," he continues, shifting his leg just the slightest bit, just a little friction. Callum's eyes go darker.

"Yeah?" he breathes, half-gasp and half-smile. "You haul your ass all the way out here to tell me that?"

"Oh, that's real fucking nice," Hugh growls. "No, you smartass cunt, I did not come here to tell you that, and I did not come here to tell you how fucking fantastic you were in it, either, so don't hold your breath."

Callum arches an eyebrow. "Then what?"

Hugh reaches down between them, feels Callum tense with anticipation, but Hugh just grabs Callum's hand and drags it up in front of his face. Sure enough, the ring's still there, heavy and silver, wrapped around Callum's index finger. "Christ. I can't fucking believe you wore that on camera, you pussy." Jesus, it had been like a punch in the solar plexus, sitting there in the dark, crappy neighborhood theatre and suddenly seeing _that_ , the familiar logo three feet high on the screen, impossible to miss. Because Callum _never_ talks about Hugh, not to reporters, not to other actors, barely even to Bruce and John and Bernie, and Hugh's always been happy to talk to anyone who'll listen, and lately he's realized that half of his stories involve Callum somehow, and Callum can't even be bothered to answer his fucking phone half the time, and frankly, Hugh'd been starting to feel like kind of a chick about the whole thing. Which is why he has to go on, "This doesn't mean we're fucking engaged or something, does it? 'Cause I'm sure as shit not gonna start sending you flowers or fucking opening doors for you or shit like that."

Callum shrugs, as best he can with his chest smashed against Hugh's. "It fit the character. It's a little thing we call _acting_ , maybe you've heard of it."

"'Hugh Dillon gives an intensely magnetic performance as Joe Dick,'" Hugh shoots back, "completely overshadowing the sad attempts of one Mr. Callum Keith Rennie to hog the fucking spotlight…"

"You memorized a review?" Callum grins. "Your ego is like the Eighth Wonder of the World, you know that? It's a fucking national treasure."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Rennie." The lines are familiar, variations on a theme of bullshit, but Hugh's not really aware of what he's saying and he's pretty sure Callum isn't, either. Callum's got that sort of intense-hesitant look in his eyes that Hugh's only seen a few times, open and threatening at the same time, _don't hurt me or I'll kill you_. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. Callum's index finger dips down, the ring glinting dully in the cheap apartment lights, till his fingertip is pressing against Hugh's bottom lip. He pushes down so that Hugh can feel cool air and Callum's breath ghosting over the exposed, spit-slick skin inside. The sensation shoots straight to his cock, and he opens his mouth wider without thinking about it, lets Callum slide that long, slender finger along his tongue until the ring knocks lightly against Hugh's teeth. Hugh can taste Callum's fingerprints, taste the tang of metal heavy against his lip, and he's been a lot of places and fucked a lot of people and he still thinks this is maybe the hottest thing he's ever done in his whole fucking life.

Then he moves his tongue a bit, experimenting, and Callum's eyelids flutter closed and that is _it_ , Hugh's fucking _gone_ , falling into Callum's mouth with a groan. Callum's finger is trapped between their mouths for a few seconds, the nail scraping lightly against their tongues until he pulls it away, dragging a wet trail down Hugh's jaw and neck. Hugh's a little sorry to see it go, but then there's Callum's tongue instead, shoving into him, hot and hungry and wet and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Hugh's missed this. Callum's making noises now, small desperate noises that Hugh would give him shit about later if Hugh wasn't making the exact same noises himself, wasn't shifting so that their cocks can slide against each other, denim catching on denim and adding to the friction, just the right side of pain. Callum tastes like cigarettes and breath mints, like the road and like _Hard Core Logo_ , and Hugh dives after it all, hearing Callum's head thunk against the door, trying to tell him everything he came three thousand fucking miles not to say.

Then Callum reaches out and wraps the fingers of his right hand around Hugh's so that Hugh can feel the ring, that _fucking_ ring, digging hard into his skin, and Hugh gasps and shakes and comes, just like that, right there against Callum's door with the little old lady across the hall.

He's vaguely aware of Callum coming, too, choked-off sounds in Hugh's ear and his hand clenching in an involuntary rhythm, and _that's_ something Hugh's going to be thinking about for probably quite a while to come, but for the moment, he's just glad to be still, rest his forehead against the door and his chin on Callum's shoulder and just fucking _breathe_. After a few minutes, Callum puffs a small laugh against his neck. "Bring me flowers," he mutters. "Right. You can't even get me horizontal, you dink."

"Fuck off," is all Hugh can muster, and it's not his best comeback ever, but Callum's just going to have to forgive him, because he's just had sort of an important fucking moment, here, and now his jeans are getting cold and his ass is sore from sitting on the plane half the day and he really just wants to collapse somewhere and sleep for about a week.

"Uh-uh," Callum says warningly, "shower first, then sleep. If I'm gonna get your jizz on my sheets, I wanna at least take my time about it," and Hugh laughs, lets Callum shove him toward the bathroom. He's a little surprised when Callum follows him inside, but it's cool, means he can slump against the tile wall and let Callum do most of the work to clean them both off. Callum's bitching the whole time about Hugh's personal hygiene, but the water is hot and his hands are gentle and by the time he's done, Hugh can barely manage to stumble the short distance to the bedroom.

Callum's room is freakishly neat—"Anal man," Hugh mutters under his breath, and Callum chuckles—but his bed is comfortable, and it's good, lying there, hearing Callum breathing next to him again. Hugh loves touring, fucking lives for it, but sometimes he thinks if he has to sleep in one more cookie-cutter, DNA-encrusted motel bed, he's gonna snap and torch the whole fucking block.

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere?" Callum asks, a low, steady voice in the dark.

"Nope," Hugh yawns. "Not till tomorrow night. Halifax. Flight leaves at eleven a.m.." He doesn't mention the three phone calls from Trent, threatening everything from his dick to his unborn children if he didn't get his ass back east on the first fucking plane. He'll get there in plenty of time for the gig, and anything outside of that is none of Trent's fucking business.

"Cool." And then a pause, so long that Hugh's just teetering on the edge of sleep, has to yank himself back to make sense of what Callum's saying: "I won't wear it on camera, if you think it's a bad idea."

Hugh bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and he's grateful Callum likes it pitch dark when he sleeps. He fumbles for a few seconds until he finds Callum's shoulder, punches it—"Fucker," Callum protests—and then slides his hand down so his index finger is hooked around Callum's.

"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, Rennie," he commands roughly.

Callum snorts. "Nice pillow talk, asshole."

"Did I or did I not just tell you to shut the fuck up? I thought actors were supposed to take direction."

"Fuck you."

"Well, if you'd stop fucking talking and let me sleep, maybe we can do that in the morning. If you're lucky."

Callum chuckles again, shifts a little, but keeps his finger linked with Hugh's. He sounds like maybe he's mumbling something, but Hugh can't hold it off any longer, feels his eyelids sinking shut and just lets go.


End file.
